


beneath the wide open sky

by starblessed



Category: Anastasia (1997), Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: F/M, Metaphors, Post-Canon, Reflection, Stars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-03-12 00:24:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13535733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starblessed/pseuds/starblessed
Summary: Ever since she was little, Anya has always loved looking up at the night sky. She remembers that, now — she remembers everything.She remembers what it felt like to belong nowhere. The stars have never had that problem.





	beneath the wide open sky

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, okay, it’s my first Anastasia fic even though I’ve been in love with this musical since the summer
> 
> I knew this day was coming.
> 
> my tumblr is [abroholoselephanta](http://abroholoselephanta.tumblr.com/)!

When Anya looks up at the night sky, she never feels lost.

It’s been a habit of hers for as long as she can remember (which, as of recently, is quite a long time indeed). Even as a child, she used to creep barefooted to the window at night and stare up at the stars.

There was something about the vast, limitless expanse of space that always stole her breath away. For little Anastasia, the sky was incomprehensible. It stirred her adventurous spirit. She used to dream of soaring up into space, plucking the stars from the night sky to give out to her friends and family, and stealing the moon to keep for herself. For a little girl with an imagination as vast as the heavens, it seemed a realistic dream.

Even when she lost everything, she did not lose the night. It was always the same stars above her, the same moon shining down upon her head. The sky was a constant. In a world where that was so rare, so precious, Anya treasured it. Looking up at the blackness of night always let her feel she had somewhere she belonged. The stars made her feel safe.

(There were no stars that night, she remembers now. The sky was black. It was as if all the light had vanished from the world in a single instant, snuffed out in a haze of gunpowder and blood. The stars crashed down to the earth in flames. There was no more light, no more dreams, no more Romanovs.)

When Anya looks up at the night sky now, she doesn’t remember what used to be. She doesn’t think of nights spent peering out her bedroom window in the palace. She does not think of basking under the wide open, star-bright skies of the Crimea. She does not remember a pitch black sky, silhouetted with trees that stretched high above her limp body like skeleton arms. She does not remember the view of night from under the bridge, the way the stars struggled to illuminate the ceaseless gray of Leningrad.

When Anya looks up at the night sky, she feels free. She does not have to remember anything at all.

Now, the winter air chills her, and the stone balcony is hard under her bare feet. She grips the railing, cranes her head up, and takes a deep breath of night air. Paris’s stars can not compare to Russia’s, but they are a close second. Up so high, Anya almost feels as if she could reach out and seize them, to steal them the way she dreamed as a little girl.

Oh, what a _fantastic_ dream it is.

“Anya.”

A soft voice startles her out of her thoughts. She does not jump; instead, she turns slowly around. The sight of Dmitry standing in the balcony doorway coaxes a smile to her lips. He is messy-haired and sleepy-eyed, wearing nothing but his night pants and undershirt. He is always softer at night. The darkness seems to lend a gentleness to him that he’s otherwise too stubborn to show in daylight — or perhaps at night he’s just too tired to be a pest.

She doesn’t know. She doesn’t care. She loves every version of him, every piece, even the ones that drive her crazy. He is not a memory; he is here and now.

Dmitry is as present as the stars in the sky, and Anya takes a moment to savor them both. She is unbelievable lucky.

He takes his own step out onto the balcony. His eyes roam the landscape of the city, finally following Anya’s gaze up to the sky. Something flickers in Dmitry’s face, tired and fond.

“Come on, princess,” he teases, taking her by the arm. “You’ll freeze out here.”

“It’s not cold,” Anya protests, despite the gooseflesh pimpling her arms. She could stay out here for hours more. She’s Russian — she can bear a little chill. “I just… wanted to see.”

“You’ve seen, then.” Still, Dmitry pauses. He falls silent for a moment, tucking his arms around Anya’s shoulders and pulling her against him. Anya leans into his warmth. Somehow Dmitry always feels like a furnace, and she envies him for it.

“It’s beautiful,” he says after a moment. “It’s the one thing that hasn’t changed.”

Unlike everything else. Their worlds are so different now… their lives have changed so irrevocably that it’s a wonder anything can feel familiar at all.

 _They_ are familiar to each other, though — Anya and Dmitry, bound by years and fate and too many shared moments to count. And they sky, of course, is always there.

Anya leans back in Dmitry’s arms, treasuring the glimmer of the stars for a moment longer. She does not yearn for Russia; she does not miss anything she’s left in her wake. Her mind is not straining to remember a past better left uncovered. For just this moment, she does not need to be anyone or anything.

She really has found the place where she belongs.

Anya lays a palm over Dmitry’s own, squeezing his bony hand. “Alright,” she finally says. “Let’s go inside.”


End file.
